


Port of Call

by hollowanchors



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowanchors/pseuds/hollowanchors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murmurs accented by the sour scent of whiskey.  Drunken confessions that were forgotten in the morning, replaced by throbbing temples and nausea. Hesitant, lingering touches that they both pretended were accidents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Port of Call

Things started out slow.  Excruciatingly unsure.  Murmurs accented by the sour scent of whiskey.  Drunken confessions that were forgotten in the morning, replaced by throbbing temples and nausea. Hesitant, lingering touches that they both pretended were accidents.

                It was three months after Castiel’s fall from grace that they finally kissed.  Sitting on the edge of an unforgiving mattress in the dim light of a back-road motel.  Sam had gone out to pick up a pizza and it was just the two of them.  Alone together, Dean’s knees brushing against his softly, innocently.  But within minutes of Sam’s departure all pretense was abandoned.  Years of dancing on the edge of a precipice, years of waiting in the hopes of something more were over in a moment. 

                He noted that Dean’s kisses were different from April’s or Meg’s.  Not as harsh and demanding.  Careful and caring.  His mouth was giving beneath the urgency of Castiel’s kisses. 

                It wasn’t until two and a half weeks later that Dean’s kisses reciprocated the urgency of Castiel’s.  He had been wounded on a hunt.  They had thought there was only one werewolf when, in fact, there had been two of them.  Dean and Sam had taken off, chasing after the original wolf, leaving Castiel to hold down the fort.  Minutes later found him cornered against a brick wall in a back alley by the second werewolf. 

                It had not been a serious injury.  He had been knocked out and been on the receiving end of a head wound; bleeding profusely, it had looked more serious than it was.  Dean had found him on his back covered in his own blood. 

                He was roused by the sensation of Dean’s lips pressing against every reachable surface, murmuring ‘Cas,’ the nickname that he himself had bestowed, every time he had breath enough to spare.  The kisses were pertinacious and betrayed Dean’s worry.  When he pulled away his face had been smeared with Cas’s blood.  Castiel had laughed, despite the situation and awkward position, and, after a moment of hesitation, Dean smiled back, his green eyes sparkling. 

                Upon reflection the following morning on situation he was thankful that their roles had not been reversed.  Though there was no serious injury, he still would not have fancied finding Dean unconscious in his own blood. 

                They never officially told Sam, but Castiel knew that he was aware.  Dean may have, at one time, worried about what his brother would think but Castiel, free of Dean’s self-depreciating esteem and warped view of himself, knew that Sam loved his brother regardless of anything, especially something as trivial as the gender of his lover. 

                Three years later found the two of them tangled in the crisp sheets of another motel room with fading yellow walls.  It had taken a little under two months after their first kiss for them to fall into the routine of renting two motel rooms, one for them and one for Sam, whose lips twitched in a knowing smirk the first few times but never said anything.  And after everything—heaven, hell, and purgatory—Castiel was grateful each morning to wake up to the sight of Dean—chest rising and falling slowly and green eyes that contained universes peering up at him through thick lashes. 

                At one time, Castiel had loathed God for every resurrection he endured but now he didn’t go a day without murmuring a prayer, whether his father was able to hear it or not, thanking him for every moment more he had with Dean Winchester.


End file.
